


Wilde Hunt

by Nemainofthewater



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Apophis really got around, Canon Compliant, Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Don’t copy to another site, Gen, M/M, Medical Procedures, Post-Canon, Spoilers up to Episode 130, Torture, for now, implied blissful domesticity, protective dragons, spoilers: happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 05:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21049097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: Grizzop has a quest. Zolf is tired. And Wilde's been kidnapped.Set post-canon





	Wilde Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally going to be an extra treat for the Trick or Treat exchange, but then it grew and also didn't really fit anyone's prompt, so I though that I'd post it now. Plus, this is incredibly self-indulgent so *shrugs*
> 
> Many apologies to actual, historical Oscar Wilde. 
> 
> (Also sorry about the pun, couldn't help it!)

He was hunting a silvery doe when she found him. Crouched carefully downwind, bow loosely gripped in his hand and in the process of drawing an arrow from his quiver. He had been hunting the doe for over three days now, inching closer and closer every day. When he saw her he immediately stood upright, heedless of the fact that the doe took the opportunity to bolt. There would be other hunts.

“Lady Artemis?” he asked briskly, inclining his head. Artemis never demanded that her chosen bow to her: she was more interested in the thrill of the chase, the love of wild spaces, the rush of satisfaction and pride at the conclusion of a difficult chase to worry about formalities. Not like the Zeus lot: he’d heard that they took _hours_to do anything if their god showed up. 

“Grizzop,” she replied, nodding at him in turn, her voice low, “I have a task for you.”

He straightened and replaced his small hunting bow on his back. He rolled his shoulders back to get rid of any residual stiffness from his hours waiting statue-still on the ground.

“Right,” he said, “What do you need me to do?”

Artemis smiled approvingly at him, but her her forest green eyes hard: “Don’t you want to know what it is?” she asked, “It’s not going to be easy. Not at all. I won’t be able to help you, and should you fail-”

“What, I’ll die?” Grizzop snorted, “Yeah, a bit late for that.”

Artemis levelled a stern look at him. “This is not a laughing matter,” she said, “You’ll be risking your soul if you go on this Quest: even I could not bring you back from that.”

“I’ll do it,” he said, “But why ask me? I’m sure that there are hundreds of thousands of heroes in your realm who’d do anything you asked.”

“You’re underestimating yourself.”

“I don’t think I am,” Grizzop said, “There’s a reason that you’re asking me and I’ll be more useful to you if I know what you need me for.”

Another smile. This one more a baring of teeth, the grimace of a predator, but equally approving nonetheless. He felt a brief pang of wildness, of adrenaline, making him want to run and run and be chased. It passed soon enough. He was used to it. 

“You are one of my truest representatives, and you should not forget it,” she said, “But it is true that you were requested.”

“Requested?” Grizzop repeated. Who would request him? Who would have enough sway with Artemis that would actually listen to them?

“It’s more accurate to say that they promised me a rather large favour in return,” she said, “But I would have acquiesced in any case. I must admit that I’m curious to say how this plays out.”

“Just tell me.” Grizzop’s stomach was sinking. Anything that amused a god, even one as straightforward as Artemis, was bound to be trouble.

“One of the high-and-mighty Meritocrats themselves,” Artemis said, “One of the few who are left in any case. The great,” and her smile twisted ironically, “Apophis.”

#

Grizzop woke with a gasp, breath filling his lungs for the first time. Literally for the first time. His stared down at his (naked) chest. The scars were gone. Or had never been there. Reaching up he touched his nose. No longer crooked. His scars had been with him for years now-thousands and thousands of years and still only a few weeks. Time ran strangely in the realms of the gods.

“Astounding,” a voice breathed beside him, and Grizzop was up and in a ready position, hands reaching for a non-existent arrow to nock in his non-existent bow so quickly that he gave himself whiplash.

Eren Fairhands sighed. It was deep, patient, and extremely condescending. Gods. He’d forgotten what an arsehole he was.

Fairhands muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like: “the bloody Artemis lot” and waved his own hands, murmuring something. There was a glow and the pain in Grizzop’s neck faded. His ready stance didn’t.

“Would you stop that,” Fairhands said, his ethereal patience stretched thin, “I’ve just healed you using an ancient technique that literally nobody has performed since the Fall of Rome, and this is how you thank me?”

Grizzop could see the pink Heart of Aphrodite on Fairhand’s chest, glowing softly. He scowled at it: “I should have known it’d be you,” he grumbled.

Fairhands raised one perfect brow: “You would rather I hadn’t resurrected you?”

“I’m not saying that,” Grizzop said, “But do you have to be so…so…smug about it? You’re not even the one who did all the hard work! Pretty sure that was Artemis, what with the whole having been technically dead for almost two thousand years.”

Fairhands closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His lips were moving, though Grizzop couldn’t sense any Divine energy emanating from him so it was probably just some sort of relaxation mantra. Aphrodite. No stamina.

“Someone is waiting outside to take you to meet Apophis,” he said after a couple of minutes of quiet, and at least five deep breaths, “And might I suggest that you put some clothes on first. I have no idea how Azu managed to put up with you for so long.” And then he swept out of the room, the hem of his robe flaring out in a with a swoosh.

Grizzop rolled his eyes. “What a drama queen.”

#

There were indeed clothes neatly laid out at the end of the bed. Dark brown jacket, leather trousers, a pure white shirt made so soft that it reminded him of antler horns and soft-soled boots. Utterly impractical for everyday life. He grunted and started getting dressed in any case. Better than nothing.

Underneath the pile, hidden somehow despite it being rather large, at least as tall as Grizzop himself, and shining a soft silver longbow and a matching quiver made from a pure white hide. Reaching forward to reverently touch them, the amount of Divine energy coming from them was astronomical.

“Thanks Artemis,” he said, picking them up and slinging them over his back. Right. Time to get to work.

He trotted over to the door and, with a wrench, swung it open.

Saira blinked back at him in bemusement.

“Hello Grizzop,” she said, “It’s-good to see you again.” She smiled briefly at him and it lit up her face, the lines of care that had accumulated in the (years? Months? Weeks?) time that Grizzop had been dead fading.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay long,” he said, “Just enough time to get this problem of your fixed and then I’m off again.”

The smile faded, responsibilities and worries re-settling themselves on her shoulders. There was guilt lodged heavily in his stomach, but it wasn’t his fault that his quest had such fixed terms. And it was better to nip that sort of hope in the bud before it became even more painful.

“Of course,” she said, giving him a quick, professional nod, “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to Apophis.” Then she turned on her heel and started striding off. Grizzop was able to keep pace easily enough only-he kept getting distracted. Apophis’ headquarters were just as grand as he remembered but with a sad air of neglect about them. There were discoloured patches on the walls that hinted at repaired holes, piles of sand and dust littering the corridors.

“What happened?” Grizzop asked, looking around curiously.

“The riots,” Saira said, “Cairo wasn’t as badly hit, of course, but we did have a Meritocrat based here and-people were scared. They blamed the outbreak of the plague on the Meritocrats, never mind that it didn’t make any sense.”

“The what?”

Saira was startled: for a moment her step faltered. “You don’t know about…? No, I suppose you wouldn’t. You disappeared at the same time as my brother. It was-bad. Pretty bad. Things are better now, we’ve managed to inoculate everyone and stamp the plague out once and for all, but so many people died…”

“End of the world,” Grizzop said, “Right.”

He raised a tentative hand and patted Saira on the shoulder. “There, there,” he said awkwardly. What else was there to say? Wait. “Erm, Saira,” he asked, “Is Hamid-?”

“What? No, no Hamid’s fine. He’s back home at the moment, in fact. I know that he wants to meet up with you.”

“_No._” The word comes out of his mouth so quickly that for a moment he wasn’t sure who said it. He didn’t want to meet Hamid. Not when he was going to die again soon. He wanted to meet Apophis, figure out what the dragon wanted, fulfil his quest, and then leave. He had always been running out of time: this was just more of the same.

Saira looked conflicted: “It’s your choice, of course,” she said, “But I know if I were able to meet some of the people I’d most, even for a minute-”

“No,” Grizzop repeated, flatly.

She didn’t look happy, but she acquiesced. They walked in silence for the next ten minutes, passing corridors that were little more than rubble, past scorch marks dark and ominous on the walls, past something that Grizzop was fairly certain was a piece of shin bone lying abandoned in a shadowed corner. They didn’t pass anyone else, their footsteps echoing around empty corridors.

Finally, they came to a stop outside a small, unobtrusive door. Grizzop stared at it. At Saira who nodded at him to go on in. He shrugged. And opened it.

The room into which he stepped was nothing like the vast splendour which had greeted him the last time he had met Apophis. There were no ceremonial clothes, no elderly wardens. Just a small, cosy room with a blazing fireplace so hot that Grizzop could feel pinpricks of sweat on his skin, soaking through his shirt.

Sitting by the fireplace and staring contemplatively into the flames was Apophis. Still in his humanoid guise, but with bright brass scales covering his cheeks and brow.

“Grizzop,” he said, and his voice hummed with raw uncontained power, “I’m glad that you could make it.” Nodding gravely at him, he gave a double thumbs up.

“Oh,” Grizzop said, “You remember that?”

“It was a rather memorable event in my life. Please. Take a seat.”

There was a comfortable-looking armchair sat near the fireplace, the perfect size for a halfling. Or a goblin. It was ugly, so incredibly ugly that even he, who was no Hamid, could see it, all made up in greens and purples, the bright colours clashing with each other, the room, and the colour of Apophis’ scales. It was pretty impressive.

“You like it?” Apophis asked, “It was a gift from my descendant.”

“Hamid gave you that?” Grizzop asked, surprised. Hamid who had probably spent his formative years leafing through fashion magazines. Hamid, who took to time to Prestidigitate as often as Wilde? Hamid, who had bought them all opera clothes on the off chance they shame him by buying inferior clothing?

“That really doesn’t sound like him.”

“No, not Hamid,” Apophis said. His laughter rung in Grizzop’s ears, low and slightly painful, causing them to pop.

He narrowed his eyes at the dragon. “Just how many descendants have you got running around?” he demanded. Because as much as he respected Hamid (mostly) the world really couldn’t deal with more mini-sorcerers running around and causing havoc.

“Aside from the Al-Tahans? Hmmm. A few dozen perhaps.”

“Oh _wonderful_.”

“Yes, it is rather.”

Grizzop gestured to the chair.

“So, who gave you that one then?”

“Oscar, naturally,” Apophis said, a smirk on his face, “I believe it was more of a gift for my visitors: that’s the only reason I can imagine he would choose such distasteful colours. I can only blame his partner’s influence.”

“…Oscar _Wilde_?”

The look on Apophis’ face, all smug satisfaction, was probably the best hint that he wasn’t completely pulling this out of his arse because it was the exact same infuriating smirk that he’d seen on Wilde literally every single time he’d met the man. Apart from the one time when he had been unconscious and face down on his desk, though that had been equally aggravating for a different reason.

“He does tend to garner that reaction.”

“_Oscar_ Wilde is your great great great great great however many great grandson? The idiot with a death wish? That Oscar Wilde?”

“I’m sure that if you were to ask him then he’d say that he’s rather singular.”

“Oscar Wilde,” Grizzop mumbled again, shaking his head, “Nope never mind that apparently nepotism is one of the key criteria for hiring agents, tell me why you requested me. Specifically.”

“You haven’t guessed? It is linked after all.” He gestured again to the chair: “Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”

“Standing’s fine,” he replied shortly, “Stop enjoying this and tell me.”

“Oscar’s been kidnapped,” Apophis said shortly, the amusement fading from his face, “As it stands, he’s been missing for three weeks and all attempts at scrying have failed.”

“Of course he has,” Grizzop said, “And you want me to rescue him?”

“Oh no,” Apophis smiled and in a flash of primal fear he realised that even in human form his teeth were angular and pointed and extremely dangerous. The teeth of an apex predator. “Your job is to find him and then to contact me. I’ll take care of the rescue myself.”

And Grizzop didn’t doubt that for a moment.

#

He stepped out into the bright, Egyptian sun, tugging his pack up so that it settled more comfortably against his back. The bag, full of useful supplies, including food (which is a strange thought: it had been so long since he had needed to eat to survive rather than just indulging in morsels from Artemis’ table) had been waiting for him outside the door when he’d left Apophis.

He wasn’t complaining. It wasn’t like he had any actual money: even before his death/disappearance/whatever people thought had happened, the banks hadn’t exactly been working that well. And he would need supplies: only fair that his employer provide them.

“Grizzop!”

He turned automatically. Then groaned. Running toward him, waving his hands in joy and welcome, was Hamid. He looked older: his round cheeks had sharpened and there was a new aura of responsibility about him, settling like a well-worn cloak around his shoulders. That, and he distinctly more draconic than Grizzop remembered. His hands were claws, well-manicured ones, and there were scales extending up his cheeks down his neck. Brass, of course. He looked surprisingly like Apophis, although perhaps that wasn’t really a surprise after all.

“Oh,” he said, “Er, hi Hamid. Did your sister-?”

“Did-what’s Saira got to do with this? Wait, did she know-”

“Never mind,” Grizzop said, cutting off the flow of words, “What are you doing here Hamid?”

“What am I doing here?” Hamid looked offended, “I’m not the one who’s reappeared after having gone missing for over five years! We tried everything to get you and Sasha back, but we couldn’t even find you. Where is Sasha?” He craned his head, looking around at the dark and dim crannies around the building.

Grizzop didn’t say anything, but something in his face must have given him away because Hamid stopped searching the shadows. “…oh,” he said. 

“She was alive when I saw her last. And if there’s anyone who could get out of Rome alive, it’s Sasha,” Grizzop said, eying Hamid’s watery eyes suspiciously: he really couldn’t deal with being the cause of two Al-Tahan’s having a breakdown in the same day. Hamid sniffled and surreptitiously took out a pristine handkerchief and blew his nose noisily.

“You were in _Rome_?” Hamid’s voice rose to a truly incredibly pitch, and Grizzop winced. One of the unfortunate realities to having exceptional hearing was that one would live to regret it while travelled with Hamid Saleh Taroun Al-Tahan who somehow made bats sound gruff.

“Yeah. The transport spell? No so good with the whole travelling in space. Even worse with time though, spat us out two thousand years in the past. Give or take a few centuries.”

“You were at the _Fall_ of _Rome_?”

Grizzop shrugged. He’d really thought that they would have figured this out in the (five?) years since they’d disappeared. Saira had said something about a plague though, they’d have had bigger things on their mind.

“Sasha definitely made it out,” he said, firm, “You know her. When’s she ever let something like a fall of an evil city stop her from getting where she wants to be?”

Hamid gives a brief laugh, the tears retreating. Grizzop heaved a sigh of relief as the handkerchief was tucked away in his sleeve, freshly Prestidigitated.

“Thank you,” Hamid said, “That-that means a lot.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, “But what are you doing here, Hamid?”

“Oh! I was meant to introduce Apophis’ representative to a mutual friend: he’s a bit shy nowadays and doesn’t like people turning up unannounced.”

“That bloody dragon.” He had looked far too amused when he’d told Grizzop to meet his ‘contact’ outside. It was becoming easier and easier to believe that Wilde was his descendant: he was feeling exactly the same level of frustration as when confronted with one of his idiotic puns.

“I’m guessing you’re his representative?”

“Unless there’s another quest that he hasn’t told me about,” Grizzop said, “Yeah, that’d be a pretty sure bet.”

“That’s-good! Did he manage to get you back from past? Is that why you and Sasha had to split up?”

“Er,” Grizzop said, “Not exactly.”

#

Hamid was still fuming twenty minutes later and half a mile into their trek.

“I can’t believe he knew you were dead! And didn’t tell me!”

“Look, not my fault that your great great great great great great great-”

“I get the point.”

“-great grandfather is an arsehole. With a terrible sense of humour.”

Hamid scowled. “I still think he should have told me,” he said, “He knew how hard we were working to bring you guys back and he knew all the time-”

Grizzop sighed as Hamid started ranting again. He should have- well not lied, that wasn’t exactly Paladin behaviour but maybe avoided the topic a bit better. He tuned Hamid’s voice out and started idly scanning the streets instead. They looked both better and worse than the last time he’d been there: there wasn’t a sandstorm at least, but there were signs of the turmoil that the city had gone through: boarded up shops, fewer people on the street. There was a hopeful feel to the air though, nothing like the terror that he remembered on his last visit.

Only…he narrowed his eyes. There was something off. He shrugged his bow off from his back, holding it loosely in his hands and strode forward, ignoring Hamid’s yelp and attempts to stop him, until he was standing in front of the fountain.

“Oi,” he said poking his finger at the dwarf in front of him and ready to draw at a moment’s notice, “What are you doing then? Because there’s no way you’re reading that book.”

The dwarf lowered his novel, some lurid thing with a half-naked woman displayed prominently on the cover embraced by a shirtless barbarian with an eight-pack and looked down at him.

“Yeah?” he said, “And do you make a habit of accusing innocent bystanders?”

“Only those that are clearly armed and are clearly not reading,” Grizzop retorted. The dwarf was heavily armed with a glaive strapped to his waist and a dagger displayed prominently on the other.

The dagger was…strange. Utilitarian, yes, but made of a fine blue-ish metal that shimmered in the sunlight. Something that was looked so flashy that most would discount it as being all style and no substance and would subsequently be in for a nasty surprise. There were subtle charms woven all over it, illusions meant to trick the observer into believing that it was harmless or that it was a trick of the light. It was only by staring fixedly at it that Grizzop was able to stop his own gaze from wandering. Sasha would have killed for a dagger like that one. It was evidentially expensive, and equally evidentially not bought by the dwarf himself whose clothes, while well-made, were what could be kindly classified as ‘functional’ at best.

The dwarf straightened, carefully slipping his book into a pocket and placing a hand on his glaive. “Is that so,” he said softly.

“Wait! Zolf! Grizzop! Don’t-”

Hamid placed himself firmly between them, back to Grizzop and staring up into the dwarf’s eyes. “Apophis sent him!” he said desperately, “He’s here to find Oscar-”

All the tension abruptly drained from the dwarf, Zolf’s?, body leaving him wrung out and tired. There were dark circles under his eyes speaking of dozens of sleepless nights and under his armour his clothes were loose on him, speaking to a great deal of weight loss in a short amount of time.

Hamid noticed as well, his brow creasing in concern.

“Zolf,” he said reproachfully, “You promised that you’d take care of yourself. Oscar wouldn’t want-”

“Well Oscar’s not here, is he?” Zolf snapped back and pushed past him. “You’re Grizzop then? I’ve heard about you. Good things, mind.”

Grizzop nodded back at him. Straight to the point, no time wasting. Good.

“Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam,” he said, extending a hand, “Paladin of Artemis. Deceased.”

“Zolf Smith,” the dwarf replied, “Mercenary. Retired.”

“I’ll need you to tell me everything you can remember about Wilde’s disappearance,” Grizzop said, “And it should probably be somewhere more private than out here on the street.”

“Agreed.”

Zolf paused, then turned to Hamid. “You’d better get back to the offices,” he said. His voice was gruff but he laid a surprisingly gentle hand on the halfling’s shoulder. “We don’t want you getting snatched as well.”

Hamid scowled at them: “I can help!” he said, “We don’t even know if-”

“Yes,” Zolf said firmly, “We do. And you’re not exactly hiding your heritage what with your-” he made a vague gesture, “-everything. Anyway, we don’t want Apophis going on a murderous rampage. You and Saira are the only reason he hasn’t snapped yet: we can’t afford to have you kidnapped when you’re at least 25% of Apophis’ self-control at the mment.”

Hamid was a few seconds away from a temper tantrum. “Fine!” he said, “But you’d better not get yourself killed. Either of you!”

He darted forward and, before Grizzop could react, gave him a brief hug. He did the same to Zolf, who tolerated it better, and then turned on his heel and stomped off.

“That went better than expected,” Zolf said, “Now. Come with me.”

#

The house that Zolf led him to was…surprisingly domestic. There were plenty of wide, open windows with a desk filled with parchment and scribbled journals placed beneath an especially lovely one. Through an open door, Grizzop could see a spacious kitchen, though it didn’t look like it had been used in a while. Bookshelves lined every wall of the living room, and Zolf slipped the one he had been reading out of a pocket and reverently back into place on its shelf.

“Hold on a minute,” Grizzop said, peering more closely at the shelves, “Did Wilde write that?”

“He did,” Zolf said then gestured toward the shelf filled with equally colourful books, “And all of those. I told him that he couldn’t do half as well as Harrison Campbell, and he went a bit overboard proving me wrong.” A smile. “The idiot.”

“Sounds like him,” Grizzop said taking in the sheer quantity of books, “He still doesn’t know when to take a break, I take it?”

Zolf snorted. “Definitely not,” he said, “Despite being ‘retired’ from the Meritocracy. He pretends to go on book tours, I pretend to believe him. I am, was, a Harlequin and they don’t much like the Meritocrats. Not that I can blame them. His tours give us plausible deniability: not like I can spy on him for information if he doesn’t have any information to give. It works for us.”

“Was he on one of these tours when he was taken?” Grizzop asked.

Zolf collapsed into one of the incredibly ugly sofas littering the room (and Grizzop was starting to understand who the real mastermind behind Apophis’ ‘present’ was) and stared blankly in front of him.

“No,” he said softly, “It was after he’d got back from one. He’d gone into the Meritocratic offices, said he wanted to check on things. Next thing I knew there was an explosion in the high street and by the time everything had settled down he was gone.”

“And you’re sure it’s not the Harlequins? Because last I knew they were bad news. Zombie apocalypse taking over Prague bad news.”

Zolf scowled. “That was one rogue agent,” he said, “We don’t do that sort of thing. We just don’t think that the world should be ruled over by an immortal group of dragons, that’s all. Especially not since they were _useless_during the plague.”

“Hmm,” Grizzop said, “That sounds like they’ve got a good motive then.”

“Curie wouldn’t-”

“Curie might,” he shot back, “She’s ruthless. And highly skilled. We can’t discount anyone.”

“You don’t understand,” Zolf said, “Curie actually _likes_ Oscar. Or respects him at least, which is as close as she’s ever going to get.”

Grizzop stared at him. “She has met him, right?”

Zolf didn’t laugh at the joke. “Wilde was indispensable during the plague,” he said, “And Curie knows it. If it hadn’t been for him, we wouldn’t have been able to find a cure. Thousands more would have died.”

Grizzop wasn’t convinced. He stared at Zolf, trying to work out whether he actually believed what he was saying, or was just deluded.

“Can you think of anyone else?” he said, “Anyone at all who’d have a grudge against the Meritocracy and have the means and motive to take him? He’s not exactly an easy target, although he certainly acts like it.”

Zolf could only hold his gaze for a moment, before he dropped his head.

“No,” he said to the floor, “But there must be someone. Someone that I’ve overlooked.”

Grizzop shook his head. “Right,” he said, “You’re going to go to bed and get some actual rest. You’re no use to me exhausted, and-” he raised his hand, forestalling the protest, “- more importantly you’re no use to Wilde. You’re going to sleep for at least eight hours and then eat something that’s not energy potions.”

Zolf huffed, but since he wasn’t an actual idiot, unlike some people he knew, he acquiesced and started walking toward a third door, opposite the kitchen.

“You’ll tell me if you find anything,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Grizzop nodded in response, just managing to hold back from rolling his eyes. Finally, the dwarf left.

Good. He could get to work.

#

He didn’t get very far before being grabbed. That was embarrassing.

He had been walking around the marketplace, casting Detect Evil and letting his eyes scan the streets absently to find something of interest. Something had flickered in the corner of his eye and the next thing he knew there was a gag in his mouth, its sharp edges digging into his lips, magic-suppressing shackles around his wrists, and worst of all a finely woven sack over his head.

“Mmph!” he said struggling uselessly against the small hands restraining him and pushing him further into the sack, “Mmph!!”

It was no use. With one final heave, he the entire world went dark as the sack was fastened and tightly. He grunted as someone swung him up and over their shoulder, knocking him painfully against their back. There was something wrong with his sight: more wrong than just being kidnapped would warrant. He blinked: his eyelids felt ridiculously heavy. Ah. Damn it. He’d been drugged.

And then he closed his eyes.

#

He groaned. Pried open his eyes. They were dry. His whole body hurt, throbbing in a way that he knew meant he’d be one big bruise in the morning. There was a sharp pain at his wrists and his arms felt as if they’d gone numb. The world wavered around him and then came into sharp, well sharper, focus.

“Wilde?” he croaked.

Opposite him Oscar Wilde shot him an extremely unimpressed look. Although considering what he looked like, Grizzop rather thought he had no room to judge.

Wilde looked older, less polished. There was an old scar running down his cheek, but he hardly noticed that. What was another scar in their line of work? No, the thing that really stuck out was that every inch of visible skin was covered in brass scales. His hands, shackled to the wall behind him, were less hands and more claws, and there were a pair of horns arching out from his dishevelled curls. Even that wasn’t too bizarre: Hamid was also looking pretty draconic these days and the amount of side effects from improperly cast spells that Grizzop had seen… A few scales weren’t anything to worry about.

No, it was the fact that Wilde was covered in small, neat wounds that made Grizzop literally tremble in anger. They were everywhere: identical bloody squares where scales had carefully removed, fingertips raw and sore looking where his claws had been filed down, horns blunt and hardly visible, filed to nubs.

“Smugglers?” Grizzop squawked, coughing as his dry throat protested the action.

“Smugglers?” he repeated, quieter, “Everyone thinks you’ve been kidnapped for political leverage, but black-market smugglers got the drop on you?”

Above a metal gag, probably identical to the one that Grizzop had been wearing whenever he’d been snatched, Wilde’s eyes were sardonic and full of frustration. Obviously, he couldn’t believe it either.

“How harsh of you, Mr drik Acht Amsterdam,” a polished voice came from door shot through with a faint accent, “To reduce our operation to simple smugglers. It really does hurt my soul to hear our artistry denigrated like that.”

Grizzop groaned.

“Monologuing type, your captors?” he asked Wilde who rolled his eyes and gave a single, languid nod.

“I’m afraid that dear Oscar has been rather starved for company,” said a second voice, this one female and decidedly upper-class, the haughty that came naturally to the aristocracy. There was a _click_ and then the heavy metal door swung open. The woman who posed in the doorway was all grace. Dressed as she was in well-fitted jodhpurs, a dark green jacket and knee-high boots with her brunette curls pulled pack and out of her face, she more resembled a bored socialite about to indulge in her husband’s stables than a member of a black-market smuggling ring. She was carrying a large cardboard box in her arms.

The man stood next to her did nothing to dispel the impression. He was in his late thirties or early forties, his pale blond hair slicked back out of his brown eyes and was clad in a fashionable dove-grey morning suit. The only incongruent thing about him were the gloves he was wearing, dark leather that didn’t hide the stains.

They entered the cell at a leisurely pace, arm in arm.

“Who the hell are you,” Grizzop said.

The woman looked surprised, then glanced over at Wilde who was eying her warily, body tensed.

“Your friend’s manners are absolutely atrocious, Oscar dear,” she said, “I have simply no idea how you managed to put up with him for so long.”

There was a muffled sound from Wilde that, knowing him, was either a quip of some kind or, judging from noise, curses.

“Of course!” the woman said, “I do apologise. Henri dear?”

The man knelt down, uncaring of the effect of the dirty floor on his fine suit, and gently unfastened the gag. It came away with a disconcerting squelch leaving myriad pinpricks behind, and Wilde coughed several times, trying to dislodge the blood and saliva that had accumulated.

“Ah ah,” said the man, “Have you forgotten the rules so quickly?” He glanced over at Grizzop significantly. Wilde scowled, the scar on his cheek pulling and distorting his face. Nonetheless he patient waited until a glass vial had been placed underneath his mouth before spitting into it, trying to get rid of as much blood as possible.

“There we are! Waste not want not.” The vial was efficiently stoppered and placed neatly on the floor. He beckoned at the woman: “Augusta, be a dear and pass me the sample containers.”

The cardboard box was placed gently on the floor, and to Grizzop’s horror dozens of small vials and boxes were removed and lined up in front of Wilde.

“Stop it,” Grizzop said, struggling against his own chains, “Stop it! This is torture.”

“Is it?” Henri looked at him condescendingly, “Well, if it’s torture, I suppose we should stop.”

“Unfortunately, Grizzop,” Wilde said, his voice hoarse from disuse, “I doubt that they really care. May I introduce you to Le Gourmand-”

The man waved, “Please do call me Henri.”

“-And the Honourable Augusta Leigh.”

The woman gave a grave curtsy, her movements slow and mocking.

“Friends of yours?” Grizzop asked.

“Hardly.”

Wilde’s reply was as dry as the Egyptian desert, but his sarcasm did make Grizzop feel better. Wilde was still fighting. Although that certainty was shaken when, casting wary glances at where Leigh was casually leant against the wall above Grizzop’s chained form, nonchalantly cleaning her nails with a scalpel, Wilde help perfectly still, allowing Le Gourmand to collect several more scales and vials of blood. He didn’t even flinch.

“We have got him well trained, haven’t we?” Leigh said airily, looking delightedly over. In one practised motion she stowed her scalpel and instead reached into the box, withdrawing a syringe filled with a clear liquid. Quickly and efficiently she emptied it into Wilde’s arm. He shuddered as it went in but didn’t say anything.

“Oi! What are you doing? You’ve got what you wanted, there’s no need to drug him-”

Leigh laughed incredulously.

“You think we’re drugging him? And risk contaminating the samples? You certainly aren’t the brains of the operation, are you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“You think this-” she gestured toward Wilde, “Is easy? Teasing out Oscar’s miniscule draconic heritage? No-” she ran an idle finger over the filed stubs of Wilde’s horns, “This is the result of years of research. It’s a medical miracle. Dearest Oscar should count himself fortunate-”

“Fortunate?” The temperature rose and Grizzop grunted as his chains heated up, aggravating the sores that were already there. He knew who had just entered. It was hard to mistake that voice.

Apophis, one of the few dragons still alive, certainly one of the only Meritocrats still in existence, entered the (now extremely crowded cell) with the easy grace of a predator.

Wilde slumped to the floor, sagging against his chains. “Perfect,” he said, “Exactly what I didn’t want to happen.”

“Hush, hatchling,” Apophis said, voice incredibly gently as he addressed Wilde. They could all see his anger, though, when he saw the state that the man was in. The temperature raised another few degrees.

“My lord Apophis!” Le Gourmand said, “We are truly blessed-”

“**_Silence._**”

Apophis’ voice rang out immediately silencing him. Grizzop snorted to himself: he was surrounded by drama queens.

Leigh and Le Gourmand exchanged glances and then, in perfect synchronicity bowed. A proper bow, not a simple incline of the head. Grizzop frowned. There was something-

“Watch out!” he yelled as Leigh’s hand swung around, syringe clasped in her hand. Unlike the one that she’d used on Wilde, this one was filled with a thick, dark liquid, swirling ominously.

There was a twang and then Leigh was looking down in confusion at the silvery arrow in her chest. She collapsed, syringe shattering on the floor.

“Augusta!”

Too late. There was another twang and then an identical bold was sticking out of his own chest.

Zolf Smith strode into view, gleaming bow clasped in his hand. “I dedicate these deaths to Artemis, goddess of the hunt,” he said flatly, “If you could arrange for them to be tormented for a few millennia that’d be appreciated. Then he dropped the bow to the ground and knelt in front of Wilde.

“Oi!” Grizzop said, “Be careful with that. It’s a gift.”

The dwarf paid him no notice: he was too busy stroking his hands gently through Wilde’s hair, face bowed and murmuring to him. There were tears dripping down his face and into his beard. Wilde looked-open. Vulnerable in a way that Grizzop had never seen before, not even when he was being literally tortured in front of him, face eyes soft.

Apophis approached then and Wilde looked down, shamefaced. The Meritocrat lowered himself to the floor and murmured something that Grizzop couldn’t hear, placing a gentle hand beneath Wilde’s chin and tilting his face up until they were staring at each other. Something passed between then, and then Apophis nodded, solemn. He reached over and, easily as slicing through softened butter, removed Wilde’s shackles. He pressed a soft kiss to his brow, and Wilde shuddered.

“Feeling a bit left out here,” Grizzop called over, “Not to interrupt this moment but-” he rattled his own chains.

“Of course,” Apophis said, getting to his feet and removing Grizzop’s chains.

“Finally!” he said, as he felt his magic return to him. “Right, out the way.”

He stumbled over to Wilde and laid both hands on him, muttering a quick prayer to Artemis. Her response was immediate, and the four of them were bathed in a soft light that left them feeling refreshed. Wilde’s wounds closed, leaving nothing but lighter, soft scales behind. The wounds at his fingers also closed, though neither his claws nor his horns grew back.

“Right,” Grizzop said, “No idea what can be done about the er, dragon-yness, but at least you’re not bleeding out anymore.”

He gave Wilde a thumbs up which the man returned bemusedly.

“Thank you, Grizzop,” he said.

“Literally my job,” he replied, “But if you could avoid getting into trouble for, oh the rest of your life that’d be helpful. Not sure how many more resurrections Artemis can swing: probably none.”

Apophis came over then from where he had been examining the neat rows of flesh and blood.

“You should leave,” he said, and his voice a growl, dark and low and impossible for a mortal throat to replicate. There was steam rising from his skin.

“Wait-” said Zolf.

“**_Go._**”

They went, Zolf supporting Wilde and Grizzop, having scooped up his bow from the floor, stumbling after them as best he could. They burst out of a non-descript house, just in time: there was an ominous grumble and then the house literally started to sink. There was a moment of stillness and then with a _whoosh_ of displaced air it caught fire, the flames flickering blue.

The three of them stared at the carnage.

“That- certainly was overkill,” Wilde said. Zolf and Grizzop shared one long-suffering look, and then Grizzop punched him. Gently. He wasn’t an idiot. Zolf snorted.

“Thanks,” he said, and Grizzop knew that he wasn’t just talking about the punch.

“You too,” he said, “For the rescue. How did you manage to find us, anyway?”

Zolf grinned: “I put a tracking spell on you before you left,” he said, “Wasn’t sure you were actually going to tell me anything.”

“Huh,” Grizzop said, “Good one.”

And then he fell silent. The three of them stood, slumped against one another, and watched the house burn. Soon, there would be a reckoning. They’d have to find a way to cure Wilde, though Zolf didn’t seem to mind his new skin. Grizzop was meant to return to Artemis’ realm, though he was sure (and the warm glow of his god confirmed it) that he could argue that his actual quest was stopping Wilde from killing himself through incompetence, a quest that would never be finished. They should probably find an actual bed at some point to collapse into.

But for the moment they stared into the flames, flickering mesmerizingly as they consumed the house. Soon it would be nothing but ash and they could leave. But not yet. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This got...a lot longer than anticipated.  
The whole concept of Wilde being descended from Apophis was literally based on a throwaway line during the Paris arc about how his face became more angular or something? And the fact that Hamid's face does that when he's being Dragon-y. That's it, the most tenuous of links!
> 
> Augusta Leigh is Byron's half-sister and Le Gourmand is, of course, the mob boss controlling Paris, though he seems to have fallen on hard times here.  
I am on Tumblr as [Nemainofthewater ](https://nemainofthewater.tumblr.com)


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